


Intolerance of Ambiguity

by Vain



Series: Strange Angels [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-11
Updated: 2008-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 01:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vain/pseuds/Vain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean may not have faith in God, but Castiel's having trouble having faith in humanity--especially when it comes to one Samuel Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intolerance of Ambiguity

**Author's Note:**

> **  
> Intolerance of Ambiguity**  
>  By: Vain  
> 9/27/2008 - 11/10/2008 ****
> 
> **o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**
> 
> Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. Supernatural and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of Eric Kripke and the CW. This is entirely a work of fiction; no profit is being made. All biblical quotations are taken from the King James Bible and/or the Apocrypha.
> 
> **Summary:** Dean may not have faith in God, but Castiel's having trouble having faith in humanity--especially when it comes to one Samuel Winchester.
> 
> **Pairings:** Castiel/Dean, Sam/Dean,  & Sam/Ruby
> 
> **Warnings:** abuse of biblical and religious references, blasphemy, slash of the slashy variety, wincest, implied het, language, all sorts of Season 4 S.P.O.I.L.E.R.S., and a hole in the bottom of the sea.
> 
> **Rated: R**
> 
> **Length:** about 10,000 words; complete.
> 
> **Notes:** This fic is the second in my Strange Angels 'Verse and follows "Up From Perdition;" it takes place after episode 4.07: "It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester." Hopefully, if I did this right, it will dovetail well with the show. ^^;;   
>  This took a lot longer to write than I thought it would, but it also ended up being a _lot_ longer than I had intended. I fail at the short story. Sam's POV will be next up in the series.
> 
> Beta-ed by the lovely **Jekka** , who keeps me honest. All remaining errors are my own.
> 
> Originally posted at my LiveJournal.
> 
> Plagiarizers will be puppy chow, but reviews rock my salt.
> 
> Enjoy!

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_Shall mortal man be more just than God? shall a man be more pure than his maker?  
Behold, He put no trust in His servants; and His angels He charged with folly:  
How much less in them that dwell in houses of clay, whose foundation is in the dust,  
which are crushed before the moth?_

**Job 4: 17-19**

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_T_ he coffee burnt the tip of his tongue, a negligible bolt of pain amidst a sea of novel sensations. Pain was easy enough to deal with; pain was a constant in the universe, no matter what your form. But the other trappings of humanity were more difficult to handle. He still had not acclimated himself to taste yet. Touching things had been a bit easier, but tastes still bewildered him a bit. And smells. Smells were all so . . . _thin_ in human perception. The universe seemed to be a less rich place when filtered through meat and water and biochemical electricity. Everything looked different. The colors were less vivid. The air less sharp. Scents were less distinct.

The crush of His Presence within Castiel's mind was less . . . omnipresent.

It was a peculiar feeling.

The angel-made-flesh lowered the coffee mug to the stained Formica tabletop, running his borrowed fingers over the warm, slick ceramic in absent appreciation. Perhaps these entrancing tactile compensations were offered as an apology for being separated from His greater Glory. A poor compensation indeed. 

Castiel shifted his shoulders, feeling the fabric of his clothing moving around him. He didn't particularly like clothing--not clothing like mortals wore, at least. It was like wearing two skins instead of one, each chafing and confining him in strange and unfamiliar ways. The actual skin of the vessel was alternatively tight and loose in all the wrong places. He had heard hunters refer to vessels as 'meatsuits' and the irreverent description was painfully accurate; the vessel was uncomfortably heavy and wet around him, lending to a faint sensation of claustrophobia, like being sewn into someone else's carcass. A heart--a solid, living, _human_ heart--thundered loudly in his chest, each beat sending a rush of fluid moving through the purloined body in carefully controlled waves. Air moved into and out of his lungs in quiet, almost unnoticed breezes. The vessel needed to be fed regularly, too. The sensation of viscera working in anticipation was both strangely compelling and repugnant.

These distractions of the flesh seemed to somehow make the Word both more and less accessible.

He had never worn a mortal's skin before and didn't understand how his brethren could have reveled in it at one time. Even now, with such a willing and pious vessel, it was too tight a fit to be comfortable. He could feel his Glory straining to break free--pulsing somewhere on the verge of stretching and bursting--unable to be contained by something as weak transient as flesh and blood and bone. In the corner of his mind, the essence of the vessel slept, shielded from Castiel's Light. His dreams fluttered across the small slice of consciousness they shared--a wife and babe, lost in metal and fire and screaming rubber--three lives cut brutally short, despite the fact that the vessel himself had not been in the vehicle. Though his flesh could (barely) contain the angel, he might not survive Castiel's presence in his body or the work that needed to be done. His soul, pressed so close to Castiel's Light, might well be crushed into oblivion. Castiel knew that the mortal would not mind, though. A part of him--the core of him--had died with the woman and child. There was nothing left for him but to serve the Lord.

At one time, he might have looked upon the human's tragedy with a benign pity. Physically and spiritually removed from the mortal world, angels were also removed from human experience. They looked down on them with the same sad benevolence that the Lord reserved for all his creations, but they were rarely _touched_ but the mortals' struggles. And the few occasions that they when they were touched--the Israelites' struggles in Egypt, Elijah's suffering in the dessert, and (more recently) the Winchesters' increasingly futile battles against the rising darkness--it was usually because the struggle was so great and of such import that the Lord Himself was moved and there simply _had_ to be an intervention. The simple death of a wife and daughter, however, was not enough to move an angel--especially not a hardened soldier like Castiel.

At least, it shouldn't have been. But now, clothed in human flesh, a human heart beating and bleeding in his stolen human chest, it _was_. He felt sorrow for the mortal he inhabited--empathic in a way that something Divine rarely knew. And he couldn't help but wonder if _this_ was the reason the Eternal made part of Himself as a Man--to know the fallibility and the exquisite contradiction of strength and frailty that was the human condition.

He also couldn't help but wonder what lesson _he_ was supposed to glean from all of this. His mission here on Earth was multi-faceted. Watching over the Child was only one part of it all and it was His Grace that selected and offered up Castiel's current vessel to the angel. The Lord then, also had to know what being ensconced in flesh would do to him--how it would affect him and invest him in humanity.

It was strange and uncomfortable to feel with a human's emotions, even if it was only a shadow of the bonds the vessel had once known. Affective evaluations colored everything he saw, everything he knew. Even his own memories were touched-- _contaminated_ \--with the slow spread of mortal emotions.

It made him feel unclean.

Despite his distaste for the inane complexities of the human process, taking a vessel was undoubtedly the wisest choice. He was too close to the mortal world right now to remain in his true form--the psychic woman was evidence enough of that. He'd warned her not look upon his face, but she hadn't listened. It was a defiance for which she had paid a heavy price and soft regret lingered within Castiel at the thought of her.

No. A vessel was much better. Especially because the Child would not heed his calls.

. . . No. Could not _understand_ his calls.

That knowledge was still surprisingly bitter. Either the Child had much farther to go than Castiel had feared or Hell had damaged him more than the angel had thought. It was most likely too much to hope that, despite everything--despite his sins and fears and petty self-loathing and doubts--Dean Winchester would be one of those blessed by Sight. The Child's mind was not open to such things; he clamped down on everything precious within him for fear of being no different than the things that had destroyed his life and family. He feared being distinguished by his own merits--even now, years after his father had died and he had ceased to be the lynch pin holding their unsteady little family together--he shied from anything that might rattle the dynamic he shared with the people important to him.

It was such a waste, but it was also no surprise that the boy continually lashed out whenever Castiel was present. Not that they made the Child's tantrums any easier to handle. There were very few things that Castiel could not handle gracefully, but Dean Winchester in a fit of pique seemed to be one of them. Even while learning to navigate these unfamiliar human emotions, he shouldn't let the eldest Winchester boy provoke him again. It would be counter productive if the Child feared him. Dean had a tendency to try to avoid or kill the things he feared. Neither of those potential reactions sat well with Castiel. It wasn't as though the Child could harm him really, but somehow the idea of direct conflict between them . . . _vexed_ him. And he didn't particularly want the boy to harm _himself_.

_Mine._

What would be the point of dragging him out of Hell if Dean were to just self-destruct again?

The angel sighed, moderately irritated by his line of thought. He wanted Dean to accept the Lord and serve the Host of his own volition. He wanted the man to fight with and for them not just willingly, but eagerly. Like he did for his father. Like he did for the Boy King--for Samuel. But there were other members of the Host who, like Uriel, were not as discriminating. It wouldn't matter to them if the Child bowed willingly or was forced to bow, so long as the work was completed. 

Two millennium of watching humanity tear itself apart without Divine intervention had jaded many members of the Host. Humanity had been permitted to write their own history and they had written it in blood; there were few left who regarded their once-and-former charges with the affection they had once held. They had seen too much--knew too much about the nature of the Lord's Earth-bound children. 

Sin stained everything and virtue was nothing more than a dying spark in the coming darkness. There was so little true innocence left in this world. The Lord had been forgotten--lost amidst split atoms and torn DNA. In many ways, Dean Winchester epitomized his age: he did not lack for attempts at virtue, but he had _no faith_. No hope. He fought--raged against a darkness that he could only understand in terms of the mundane and immediate losses and concessions--but he did not do it for the sake of virtue or the Lord. He did it because he didn't know how to do anything else. He was driven by rages and lusts and fears and hungers, drowning in chaos and unable to see the lifeline held out before him. Just like most of the other members of his species.

They were all so far from the Lord and each other. Each all alone in a sea of faces. 

It frustrated Castiel. It made him ache.

No wonder they worked so hard to ignore the signs of the Divine around them--nothing was free in the human world. Nothing good, anyway. Being able to understand that now did not make it any easier to accept. 

_"I pulled you out of hell. I can throw you back in."_

And the Child had believed him. He'd been almost _eager_ to believe him--to find the catch, the fine print, of his salvation. Even now, having been bathed in Radiance, branded with Castiel's mark, and raised up from perdition, Dean still averted his face from salvation.

He wondered how a stronger member of the Host--Gabriel or Raphael--would have fared against Dean Winchester. Perhaps Jeremiel would have been a better fit for this mission; he was more familiar with the ways of the flesh and mortals' quicksilver emotions. He would not have been so quick to anger. 

But Castiel couldn't quite bring himself to regret his time here on Earth. It was precious--a gift. And he had voluntarily shouldered this burden and Dean Winchester along with it. He would bear both gladly in service to the Lord.

Besides, he couldn't blame the Child for being afraid. Dean did not understand anything outside of his own realm of experience and his experience seemed limited to one thing and one thing only: Samuel.

The Child's stubbornness should not surprise him. Dean had rejected salvation in Hell, after all. He had begged for Samuel--Samuel, who fornicated with demons while his brother burned--and turned his face from God's glory towards the Pit.

So no. Dean's refusal to believe didn't surprise him.

_No context,_ he reminded himself as he clutched at the coffee mug. The Child had no context for anything outside of his brother. And it grated on Castiel. It made his borrowed stomach twist and sour.

Wrath. A sin of the flesh, however justified.

It was blasphemy, sin, and sacrilege all rolled into one, but Dean's relationship with his brother could not be interfered with too much. They were too close--too . . . bound to one another. Castiel resented it but he recognized it, even if some of his brethren did not. Dean could not be forcibly removed from his brother's side. It would foster too much rage and resentment on the elder hunter's part. It was better to try and save the boy and win the Child's favor through that means. Dean might even accidentally save himself in trying to save his brother.

In any case, he would never abandon Samuel. If nothing else, his perseverance in this last task had proven that. A lesser (or perhaps, better) man would have walked out on Samuel by now, but Dean remained steadfast. It was one of the pitfalls of selecting someone like the older Winchester for such work, but true martyrs were hardly a dime a dozen. And Dean's soul had been purged in hellfire, tempered in sacrifice, and sanctified by Castiel's own hand and the Word of the Lord. He'd been made into a weapon--hardened and true. There was no better choice. 

For the moment, then, Samuel Winchester was just a cross they would have to bear. And if the boy could not be saved . . . If Lilith fell and the Boy King rose in her stead . . . Well, they had Dean after all. And eventually the Child would come to understand that he didn't really need Samuel anymore; he had Castiel. He had the Lord. He wasn't alone anymore and never would be again if only he would bend that proud neck to God's Glory.

The only problem was that Castiel was not so sure that Dean would ever bend his neck. He wasn't sure that Dean _wanted_ to be saved--that _humanity_ wanted to be saved. It was easy for demons to tempt mortal men to sin, but how could an angel tempt a mortal to virtue? Especially when sin shared the bed with comfortable, more-than-fraternal familiarity?

Castiel's hands gripped his coffee mug so forcefully that a tiny crack appeared at the lip of the porcelain. He forced his grip to relax a bit. 

He didn't know about the rest of humanity and he didn't know about the dark and danger-fraught path Samuel Winchester was dragging them all down. But he did know that he was not prepared to abandon Dean yet. He was a soldier; he was used to fighting, and his fights were only virtuous. Even clothed in human skin, Glory smothered by a thin veneer of mortality, an angel can only be virtuous. The _Lord_ can be only virtuous.

He'd dragged Dean Winchester clawing and fighting from Hell. If need be, when the time came, he would not hesitate to drag him up to Heaven too, Boy King or no.

The soft squeak of tennis shoes on stick tile roused him from his unhappy thoughts and the angel lifted his eyes to see the waitress approaching with order. She was a a reasonably pretty woman, gracefully entering her mid-thirties, but he smile did not quite touch her eyes and there were deep lines etched in her face--evidence of the silent burden she bore. Her name was Anne, but she went by Emma in this town. She'd chosen it because Emma wasn't the kind of person who would have run out on her children and left them with an abusive husband who had liked the bottle and the belt more than his wife. Emma was not the type of woman who could barely make rent, even in a podunk strip of bad road like this. Emma was a fun person. A good person. 

Anne was not.

Emma set the plate down and continued smiling, the expression not at all reflective of the misery he could read in her eyes. Castiel cocked his head to the side at the apparent dissemblance. If he couldn't see into her soul, he might not have ever guessed at Anne and the thirteen years of bruises and broken bones Emma's smile hid.

"Do you need anything else, sir?"

It was instinct that moved him--instinct born of pity. His hand snaked out quickly--perhaps more quickly than a human hand should move--and she gasped as he gripped her wrist firmly, but gently. She tried to pull back, but he tugged her arm so that she met his eyes again. Her face was pale and frightened at the sudden movement.

"Go in peace," he murmured for ears alone. And a whisper of Grace moved through her, soothing the festering wounds on her soul, even if it couldn't heal them completely.

Her eyes widened in she shivered slightly and he released her, strongly resisting the urge to wipe his hand on a napkin. The woman rubbed her wrist and nodded dumbly as she backed away. He knew without looking at her again that she would be going to church tonight, but he couldn't feel any victory in his actions. She was only one soul and the darkness was fathomless, even to one such as him.

Castiel pursed his lips unhappily and stared down at the greasy food on his plate, appetite gone. He picked at the fries for a moment and prodded the cheeseburger with one of them, poking back the sesame bun to reveal bacon, lettuce, tomato, pickles, ketchup, and extra onions. How the Child managed to live on food like this without harming himself was a mystery.

This cheeseburger, though--its greasy appearance notwithstanding--was actually very good. If nothing else, the vessel's stomach seemed to approve and Castiel had made it halfway through the burger before he even realized how hungry he was. Hunger was another sensation that was still novel and it was generally unappreciated. Hunger and exhaustion tended to interfere with his work, but the vessel could not be neglected either. 

The two men arrived shortly after Castiel had polished off the cheeseburger and moved onto the fries. Even if the bell attached to the diner's door had not jangled loudly when the taller of the two entered the diner, the angel would have been aware of their entrance. It was something akin to feeling an electrical storm coming overhead. And--if the look on Samuel's face was any indicator--the storm had arrived.

The younger Winchester was scowling ferociously, as though he'd bitten into something extremely sour and could not rid himself of the taste. His gait was swift and firm, aggressive and hostile. Dean entered closely at his heels, barely a foot away, but seemingly miles behind him. His face was set in an aloof, tired mask of indifference, but his eyes were bright with exhausted frustration. 

There was a distance between them now, noticeable because of the subtle _offness_ of it all. Castiel had watched them before Dean's damnation, of course. The Winchesters had always been of particular interest to the Host--all of Azazel's children were. And Dean had always seemed to warrant watching from those angels still interested in human events. He was . . . interesting. Castiel knew of the brothers' strange synchronicity; it was a product of both their sin and their curious upbringing. They had moved together like a piston--two separate parts working seamlessly together to create a functional whole. But that had been before Dean had gone to Hell to be torn and twisted and reborn in Grace and Samuel had descended into darkness and taken to bedding a demon in his brother's place.

Now their smoothness was gone--disjointed. They were an unlubricated joint, chafing and reluctant. Dean held himself in hard lines and distressed reservation where his body language had previously always been open and attuned to his brother. And Samuel hovered in angry agitation, always reaching towards the smaller hunter, only to shy back at the last moment and never touch him. They did not turn together anymore, but rather in opposite directions and always in sharp little jerks, as though each was attempting to fight his brother's gravitation pull. The frayed and desperate edges of their relationship were evident in the unhappy body language as they circled one another in a continually decaying orbit. 

He wondered what would happen when the two of them finally collided. 

He wondered how much of it was his fault.

_"Stop him. Or we will."_

He couldn't bring himself to regret it. All that had happened was in accordance with His Will and the will of the Host. 

Emma bustled over to the two men and escorted them to a booth three seats down and at an angle from Castiel's own seat. Dean slid easily into the narrow space with a fake smile and a wink and sat with his back to the angel, facing the door. Samuel folded himself into the space across from his brother and offered Emma a thin, tired smile.

Castiel was hardly worried about them seeing him--even clothed in skin, humans could only see him if he wanted them to. It was a trick he had used to monitor Dean multiple times, much like now. It wasn't that he became invisible--the eye just slid past him and the mind dismissed him as unimportant. It was a curiously simple trick to pull these days, even among the faithful; all he had to do was _shine_ a bit. In the old days, people were not willing to be so dismissive of a hint of divinity.

"You boys want anything to drink while you check the menu?" the waitress chirped, eyes still fixed on Dean's falsely blinding smile.

"Two coffees and a Coke," Samuel grated a bit harshly.

The tone earned him a flat look of warning from Dean and a slight start from the waitress. 

Her smile slipped a bit. "Of course. I'll be right back."

Dean waited until she was gone to castigate the other man. "Dude? What the hell?" His tone was heavy with fatigue-- _Still not sleeping well_ , the angel realized--and irritation.

Instead of flinching or shrugging at the sharp question as he might have done once, Samuel merely met his gaze levelly. "What?"

Castiel stared at that cold, hard gaze and saw shadows crawling behind the human's eyes. He had seen them there before, of course, back when he had shaken the child's hand in the dim, yellow light of their cheap motel room. The Boy King's skin had been dry and cool against his palm--so unlike what 

Castiel had imagined. It didn't at all hint at the firestorm raging within the boy. Then, eagerness and a gratitude so poignant it had been tangible had obscured everything else and the tiny, flagging light in Samuel's soul had shown forth through the smothering darkness. It was that light that was attached to Dean and in that moment it had glittered like a single star in the darkness. Now, though, it was nowhere evident. Now, there was nothing but darkness and hints of sulfur, power churning itself up inside the boy like an inferno--like a sickness, even if it didn't yet spill out. 

The sight--the _feel_ of the boy who would-be King so close to him and his charge--made the angel want to spread his wings and open his true mouth to establish authority. Establish ownership. 

Instead he took a sip of coffee that had long-since gone cold.

Dean shook his head after a beat of silence and buried himself in the syrup-sticky menu as though it was the most engrossing thing available, never mind the mystery that his own brother was currently presenting. From his seat, Castiel could see Samuel draw his lips into a thin, tight line, jaw clenching in an expression that clearly conveyed obstinacy. For a moment, it looked like he would pursue the argument, but then the waitress returned, coffees and Coke carefully balanced on a tray in one hand and creamer in the other. 

Samuel swung his flat gaze to her and the expression softened a bit. Castiel, though, could still see darkness festering inside him. "We're actually ready to order." His smile looked like an apology. 

The angel had not been to visit the Child since their time in the park--since Uriel had had his own words with the younger Winchester--so he wasn't yet sure precisely what accord the two hunters had struck regarding the use of Samuel's powers or the angels' warnings, but it was evident that neither of them was completely pleased with the arrangement. Dean still had a jumpy air about him, as though unable to fully shake the unease recent revelations had fostered. And Samuel . . . was much more difficult to read. He did however know that boy had not used his abilities again, however temporary that might be. The visits with the demoness continued, though. 

That was a mixed blessing. On one hand, Ruby was an unknown factor; despite the fact that she seemed more helpful than hurtful to the brothers, even taking her demonic nature into account, that she had encouraged Samuel to use his powers at all was troubling beyond measure. On the other hand, however, Castiel knew that it was Ruby's lingering, invisible presence that was preventing Dean from taking his brother back into his bed. That was most definitely something to be encouraged. 

The Winchesters' . . . involvement with one another was beyond difficult. Two men laying together . . . two _brothers_ . . .

Even angels averted their eyes from such sins.

_Abomination_ , he reminded himself as he watched the two hunters receive their coffee and place their orders.

_'If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them.'_

When looked at objectively, the Child's carnal sins were not any less acceptable than the dozen other sins he somehow managed to commit on a weekly basis. In the grand scheme of things love--when it _was_ an issue of affection and not lust--was not the worst of the sins. However, when taken in context, Samuel and Dean as SamandDean was . . . problematic--not merely because they were men and not merely because they were brothers, but also because of _who_ they were. Samuel was the winner of Azazel's unhappy lottery: the potential Boy King of Hell--vanguard of the Apocalypse. And Dean . . . Well, Dean had a different kind of potential--a potential that might well place the brothers Winchester on opposite sides in the coming war.

As things stood now, with Samuel and Dean bound together so closely, it did not bode well. Just as the Host hoped that Dean's ties to Samuel would draw the younger Winchester away from his dark destiny, so too did the Hell's denizens hope that Samuel would draw Dean back into the darkness that had once tried to swallow him whole. Standing together, the Winchester brothers seemed near-invincible. Separated, though, and each aching for the other every step of the way . . . Well, it was too uncertain.

The issue would have to be addressed eventually and yet Castiel shied away from the matter. It was too . . . _sticky_. Especially with the hunter torn between refusing to believe out of spite and needing to believe out of fear. Castiel wanted Dean to come to them willingly, or not at all. So on this matter--the issue of wandering hands and unnatural fraternal familiarity--the angel would keep his peace. For the moment. Even though he knew how the two men craved one another, even as they denied each other. 

The Lord was not without mercy, but His Will was absolute.

What the Winchesters had needed to end, and it was better that they ended it themselves without his intervention. There was no reason to give Dean more cause to resent him and attempt to defy the Lord. In all Creation, there was only one being who had ever truly defied the Almighty: the Lightbearer. And, while Dean was special, he was not _that_ special.

Samuel, on the other hand . . .

Emma bustled away with a slightly more subdued smile than the one she'd initially directed at Dean when then the hunter completed placing their order. Dean tilted his head and leaned out of the booth slightly to stare after her and it took Castiel a moment to realize her was watching the sway of her body as she walked away.

Castiel sighed in exasperation and nibbled on a ketchup-laden french fry. _Lust._

He wondered if Dean Winchester had some sort of skill for cycling through all the Seven Sins in one week or something. And how had the human's penchant for sin become a source of fond exasperation? At least that vaguely hungry and crudely appreciative gaze was not being leveled at the man across the table from him.

Samuel watched his brother's gaze and snorted lightly, a slight frown twisting his lips. "You're such a pig." There was fondness in the chastisement, but it was slightly overshadowed by genuine irritation.

Dean shifted back into the booth and Castiel wished that he could see his face for a moment as a beat of awkward silence settled between them. Then Dean shifted in his seat again, pleather squeaking slightly. "Don't be jealous 'cause I got game, man," the older man retorted easily.

The words, the brotherly banter, was all the same, but the emotion fell flat between them, lingering like an unpleasant smell. They were playing at sincerity--trying to ignore the issue that sat heavily between them. Dean was clearly trying to avoid the problem of his brother's powers by ignoring it. It wouldn't work, of course, but denial was an important and necessary stage of grief, and grief was an important and necessary step towards letting someone go.

Samuel's reticence to broach the issue confused the angel, though. The only thing he had to lose was a measure of Dean's faith in him. Was that really so important to the Boy King? Especially when he had Ruby waiting in the wings? The answer was evident in how he could not quite meet Dean's eyes. 

The angel prodded at a french fry on his plate. Honestly, he would rather avoid the whole sticky matter of Samuel Winchester's benighted soul altogether. Samuel was complex and not at all how Castiel had expected him to be. He was hardened, but lurking beneath it all was a surprising core of innocence and a desperate need to believe in just a merciful God. He still prayed--prayed with his whole heart, which seemed to be a rarity for mortals these days--but he did not _submit_. He had faith, but not _trust_. He, like his brother, was a child of God--and a far less trying one, at that; he didn't deserve his potential fate. 

But Dean, not Sam, was the Host's primary concern. Castiel's duty--his burden--was to protect the human and prepare him for the tasks to come. He wasn't sure how to navigate between the two of them.

_Someone better should have been chosen for this._

Or--more accurately--perhaps he should not have been so eager to volunteer.

Because more and more--pound for pound, soul for soul--Samuel and Dean seemed to be a package deal. And there was no room for anyone else when it was the two of them. Not for Lucifer and not for God. And where did that leave Heaven and Hell and the impending call of Tel Meggido?

Where did that leave Castiel?

Somehow, that thought disturbed him more than anything.

Samuel cleared his throat and slouched in the booth, making the seat squeak in protest. "So what were you going on about this afternoon?"

Dean took a swig of coffee that seemed to be more of an inhalation than an actual drink. From his perspective, Castiel could see the diner's too-bright florescent lights shining off the man's dark blond hair, turning it a strange greenish tint. "Job," he quietly grunted in response as he set his mug on the table again. "There's a vamp in Tulsa and rumor of a dead schoolteacher outside of Detroit."

Their voices were a low murmur and would have been indecipherable to anyone else, but Castiel's ear picked up on them easily. There were few secrets that the Winchesters held that he could not ferret out.

Samuel quirked an eyebrow, a skeptical smile tugging at his lips. The half expression was eerily similar to Dean's when the Child was uncertain whether or not he should be smiling. Castiel hid from the resemblance by eating another fry. It was strangely tasteless in his mouth.

"You're excited over a fang and a salt and burn? That's kind of . . ." he paused, as though hunting for an inoffensive word, ". . . pedestrian by our standards these day. What's the catch?"

"I'm excited over a _hunt_ ," the smaller man corrected. "C'mon, man. A clean kill--no lines, no waiting, and no fine print. This is exactly what we need, Sammy. And it feels like forever since I got to decapitate or incinerate something."

Coming from anyone else, that statement might have been disturbing. From Dean, it was merely a bit bemusing, particularly when Castiel could _hear_ the grin in the other man's voice.

Samuel seemed to share his opinion because the taller human merely shook his head with a grin and took a sip of coffee. "Decapitate or incinerate? Pulling out the two-dollar words tonight?"

Whatever retort the other man might have made was swallowed when Emma returned with their plates. Her voice was full of false cheer as she arranged the food--a cheeseburger and a turkey club--in front of the two men. "Would you gentlemen like anything else?"

Dean shifted forward, his body language too familiar and vaguely predatory even when seen from behind. "What kind of pie do you guys have . . . Emma?"

She blushed. It was a much different flush than she'd had when Castiel had touched her. "Lemon meringue. Though it might need to chill a little longer; it was just baked fresh this afternoon, too."

"Two please," he asked with a grin Castiel couldn't see coloring his tone. "When it's ready."

She blushed and nodded before departing again, a noticeable spring in her step.

Across the table Samuel made a sour face at his brother. "You know I hate meringue," he chided.

"Who said you were getting any?" Dean countered immediately as he upended seemingly half a bottle of ketchup over his plate. 

Samuel snorted. "Again: _pig_."

Despite the taller man's words, Castiel knew from previous observations that Samuel would end up peeling the fluffy white layer off one of Dean's slices and eating half of the thick lemon custard below it, but the brothers always seemed to have the same exchange whenever Dean ordered that particular type of pie.

"Anyway," the younger hunter quietly continued as he disassembled half his club to scrape off the mayonnaise, "you had yourself a regular bonfire on Halloween. I had to use half a thing of that floral bleach crap to get the reek of funeral ashes out of our clothes."

"Yeah . . . Well . . ." Dean avoided his brother's gaze, hunching over slightly as he poked at the fries on his plate, "that was Halloween and Halloween's over. I wanna raise some hell."

It was a poor choice words because Samuel's face twitched towards a frown. His toasted bread crunched slightly as he pressed the sandwich together again. "You sure your heavenly helpers aren't going to be pissed at you?"

Castiel frowned at the line of inquiry and made a note to have words with Uriel again. It had not been the archangel's place to try to drive a wedge between the brothers. The Winchesters were in God's hands--the Host only served as a proxy in this--and, while Uriel might outrank Castiel in the field, they were all equal before the Lord. 

Besides, where Dean Winchester was concerned, _no one_ in the Host outranked Castiel. The others would do well to remember that.

"Screw what they think," Dean ground out flatly. "Uriel was out of line back there."

"And _Cas_?" There was a hint of mockery in the inflection. 

Mustard was added to the puddle of condiments Dean had created, and his tone was guarded as he spoke. "What about him?" 

"Is he really alright with you calling the shots like that?" Samuel jabbed a french fry at Dean, waving it towards his right shoulder. "I mean, he seems to have some sort of stake in you now, right?"

"He's not my keeper," the older man responded with obvious irritation. "If something needs to be done, he asks--"

"He _tells_ you, Dean," the younger man interrupted sharply. He took a savage bite of the french fry. "This is the same guy who threatened to send you back to Hell if you didn't toe the line, remember? Comparatively a little on the short side? Blue eyes? Holier-than-thou attitude? Kind of a mud monkey-smiting dick?"

Dean slammed the bottle of mustard onto the table with far more force than necessary. "It isn't always like that. You just met him." It had the feeling of a well-worn protest.

Samuel ignored the bulk of the protest. "Anyway, _you're_ the one who said he was a dick." The retort seemed more mature than it should have when delivered in that calmly logical tone. "And what was with the whole Samhain seal thing anyway? You say the word and they shuffle away with their wings between their legs? The whole thing feels funny."

"What do you want me to say, man?"

"I'm just saying that I don't buy all of this 'What Would Dean Do,' personal Jesus stuff. How do we know they aren't setting you up for a fall?"

Dean was quiet for a moment, head lowered as though he was staring at his plate. Or praying. Castiel found the former more likely. The silence stretched on for a long moment, longer than was comfortable, before the elder Winchester finally replied. "Castiel isn't like Uriel."

Samuel jerked his head back slightly, as though flinching away from something. His forehead wrinkled slightly as he pulled a face, incredulity warred with anger for a moment before he settled on flat-out disbelief. "Come again?"

"Cas . . ." Dean shrugged and he sounded vaguely confused. "He's not like Uriel. We talked afterward, remember? He showed up when I went to the park."

"I thought you talked about the seal?"

"We _did_. . ." Dean's voice was a strange mixture of exasperation and guilt. It was strange, but Samuel seemed to be able to pull every emotion imaginable from his brother with the barest change of inflection, but all Castiel seemed to inspire was hostile resignation.

_Envy._

It was a sin.

Dean continued, oblivious to the frown that now marred his unseen watcher's face. "But we talked about other stuff too, though. He's not all 'kill 'em all' like Uriel, okay?"

Samuel put his sandwich down and settled back in the booth. He leveled a flat glare across the table at the other man and his voice was clipped as he spoke, "You didn't tell me that."

"I gotta tell you everything now?"

"What did you two talk about?" he bit out.

_Envy_ , Castiel thought again. The internal admonition should have had more power over him than it did. 

_Jealousy_ , his vessel's memory whispered.

There was a difference in there, but he couldn't quite see it.

"Faith, man." Dean's voice came out sounding hollow and tired and he too settled back in his seat. "It was kinda personal."

"Personal?" The incredulity was back in Samuel's voice now, tinged with something more. Something dark. "You're getting 'personal' with an angel now, Dean? Was it personal for you, or personal for him?"

The tone of his voice made Castiel's borrowed skin crawl.

"Don't be like that!" Dean snapped in a low tone while the angel tried to restrain his urge to intervene and remove Dean from the darkness looming before him. "I _can_ have conversations with people who aren't you, you know. It's not like you don't do the same thing."

Samuel's expression went completely flat as the barb landed and the conversation suddenly fell flat between, as though Dean had somehow exposed something obscene. And really, Castiel knew, he kind of had. For a long moment, the two brothers merely stared at one another in silence, the air thick with tension. Then, by some unspoken agreement, they both looked away and devoted their attention to their food.

By the time Emma returned with the pie, their meals were half gone and the tension seemed twice as thick. Castiel swept a cold french fry through spilled salt on his plate and watched with interest as the waitress smiled tentatively at Dean.

"Do you need anything else, sir?"

She blushed again when he turned to look at her and Castiel wondered at the reaction. 

"We're fine, darlin'. Just the check, please." His gentle drawl seemed thicker than usual.

Crimson-cheeked and smiling, she tore a piece of paper off her pad and placed it face down on the table. "Please let me know if you need anything else." 

The Child watched her appreciatively for a moment as she swayed away again and then picked up the bill. "Dude. Free pie. I am awesome."

Samuel sighed quietly and looked up from the wreckage of his sandwich. For a strange moment, he seemed to be all large, sad eyes and loose, floppy hair. Castiel blinked and looked for darkness in his eyes. "Dean . . ."

He couldn't see any.

"Christ, Sam," Dean groaned in response. He rubbed a hand over his face tiredly and stole a long drink from the other man's Coke. "Let it go."

". . . I'm just worried about you, okay?"

The half-empty glass was set back on the table between them. "Not your job."

That earned him another sour look as Samuel's forehead wrinkled and his lips puckered slightly.

Dean ignored the expression with his typical aplomb by stuffing four french fries in his mouth at the same time and then chiding him with his mouth full. "And stop making that bitchface at me, Sammy."

The taller human rolled his eyes, apparently choosing his battles. "Listen--no, _Listen_ to me, Dean," he pressed when the other man made an unhappy noise. "You . . . Sometimes you . . . _like_ people a little too fast, alright? For the wrong reasons."

Castiel watched the line of the Child's shoulders stiffen. "Excuse me?"

Samuel ignored the question, choosing instead to splay his hands on the table in front of him in an obvious entreaty to be heard. "How do we even know these guys are _really_ from God?"

"I know, okay?" Dean bit out. "Now can we please drop this so I can finish my pie in peace? Please?"

"No. You've been putting this conversation off for too long."

Dean made a gesture encompassing the diner. "And now strikes you as a good time for this?"

"When you won't cause a scene or drive us into a ditch? Yeah, I'd say my timing is pretty damned good."

They glared at one another across the table for a moment. They'd been keeping their voices low and hadn't attracted any attention thus far, but all it would take was one of Dean's bouts of snappish temper to turn every head in the place and Castiel knew that as well as Samuel did. He also knew that--for all his bravado--the Child didn't care for people prying into his affairs and Dean wouldn't willingly cause too much of a scene. Nor would he abandon his brother in some random diner. He almost admired the human's manipulation, actually. 

"How do you know, Dean?" Samuel pressed after several moments of tense silence. "How do you know these things are doing the right thing here? How do you know they're not just using you?"

Dean sighed and turned his head to look out the window. ". . . He's an _angel_ , Sam."

A look like pity flashed over Samuel's face, but was gone by the time Dean turned back. "Yeah. And a lot of demons used to be angels, too."

"Castiel is not Fallen."

Castiel was strangely warmed by the flat certainty in Dean's voice, even if the line of this conversation had only served to further unsettle him.

Samuel shook his head. "Maybe not, but he's not like any angel I've read about."

"Then you've never read Revelations," the elder man snapped sharply.

"And you have?"

Dean shoved his plate away, a clear indicator that he'd been pushed too far. "I know my job, Sam. You think I'm just taking this all at face value? You think I'm that dumb?"

"That isn't what I meant--"

"Screw this," the elder hunter snapped, reaching for his jacket.

Samuel watched him with an expression of profound displeasure. "So now what? You're Dean Winchester: the Pointy End of God's Big Stick?"

Dean paused in his search and when he turned back to his brother, there was acid in his voice. "I dunno. Doesn't sound too far off from 'Boy King,' now does it?"

Samuel's eyes narrowed, but he didn't flinch. "Maybe not, but do you see me leading an army of demons anywhere? These . . . things . . . the angels. . . . We shouldn't be messing around with them. But here you are, ready to roll over and leap through their hoops like a show dog."

"What the hell do you want me to do, Sam?" he hissed. "They _pulled me out of **hell**_. To apparently help stop the freakin' apocalypse. How'm I just gonna say no to that? 'Thanks, but no thanks--I prefer the meathooks, because that was _so much_ fun the first month or so. And, hey, sorry about all life on Earth getting sucked into the Pit.' Are you even listening to yourself?"

Throughout Dean's diatribe, his voice had risen above the conversation's hushed tones and a few curious heads turned their way. 

Samuel, however, ignored the sudden attention in favor of something else. "Meathooks? . . . I thought you didn't remember anything about Hell."

Dean deflated suddenly, exasperation replacing ire in his tone. "I don't. I was trying to make a point, Sam."

Samuel quirked a skeptical eyebrow. "A point? A point with meathooks? Is that what it was like? Did they . . . Were you--?"

The shorter man interrupted before his brother could finished the stammered question. "How the hell should I know? I don't remember, remember?"

A chill went through Castiel as Samuel's gaze suddenly became hooded. "That isn't what Uriel said."

Dean froze.

Castiel's eyes narrowed but Dean abruptly rose and tossed money onto the table before the angel could respond. 

" _Whatever_ ," the human bit out with tangible anger. "Screw this. I'm not hungry anymore anyway."

The motion brought him between Castiel and Samuel, breaking his line of sight and shielding the taller hunter from Castiel's eyes with a leather-clad back as he jerked on his jacket. 

Samuel's head tilted to look up at his brother, expression closed as their eyes met. "I have to use the bathroom." 

For a moment, Dean held his gaze in challenge, but then he made a noise of disgust at whatever he read in the other man's eyes and stomped out of the diner.

"Don't take too long, princess" he snapped as the door closed behind him with a jangle.

Samuel watched his brother's retreat, ignoring the curious looks of the other patrons and took a measured sip of his Coke and then reached into his pocket to toss a few bills on the table. Castiel watched the human's apparent calm curiously until the other people in the diner turned back to their own concerns and went back to ignoring the hunter. The human pushed back his glass and slid out of the booth when the scrutiny faded.

And then Samuel turned and looked straight at him.

Castiel blinked.

The boy's gaze didn't waver one iota and his expression remained calm and unruffled. The angel cocked his head to the side as a realization struck: Samuel could _see_ him. Not his true form--not the light of His Glory--but he could see Castiel sitting there and watching them. And he _knew_ him--knew him as the Christ had known Judas in the garden of Gethsemane. 

There was no light in his gaze. 

Their eyes met and Castiel took a measure of the younger hunter not as Samuel Winchester, the smiling, bashful brother and comrade to His Chosen, but rather as the Boy King. As the abomination he might become. 

As the Adversary.

Samuel did not flinch. 

Castiel watched him as he approached his table, expression calm and neutral. The challenge and frustration in the human's energy--in that swirling blackness within him--were obvious, but the angel felt no real concern. He was a warrior, after all. He did not fear fighting for what was his--he had been doing it for what seemed like his entire existence.

And Samuel Winchester was not a threat to him--not physically, at least. Not yet.

The two men met one another's gaze, each measuring and weighing the other. Up close, the angel was again struck by how different the other hunter was from Dean. It made it somewhat easier to remember who he was-- _what_ he was.

Samuel spoke first, looking slightly unnerved by the angel's unwavering stare. "You're following us?" He paused and cleared his throat, canting his head towards the window where the Impala was parked. "Following him?"

He nodded, maintaining eye contact. "I am." There was no point in deception--not when he'd been caught in the act.

A muscle in Sam's jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth--( _like Dean_ )--and Castiel felt his eyes narrow slightly before he could stop himself. He frowned slightly. He didn't want to think of the other Winchester when he was presented with this light-less Boy King.

A heartbeat of silence passed as they frowned at one another and each seemed to find the other   
lacking. 

"You can't take him from me," the human stated at last in a firm, uncompromising voice. "Not you, and not Uriel. He's mine."

Castiel smiled serenely and nodded slightly in concession. "For now," he replied quietly and with just as much conviction. _But only for now._

The addendum went unsaid, but Samuel heard it clearly enough. His hazel eyes narrowed and the air around him seemed to lurch, thickening with barely restrained power. _Dark_ power. The lights flickered above them and time seemed to slow.

Castiel's nose wrinkled involuntary for a fraction of a moment, the vessel reacting viscerally to the perversion emanating from the human before him. His shoulders itched, wings longing to break free and become part of his visible frame, and the angel felt his own power rise to answer the Boy King's challenge. It was a challenge of power. A challenge of ownership. And Castiel could feel his human eyes fade for a moment as Divinity shown forth.

The Darkness vanished so abruptly that Castiel blinked, hiding the glimmer of his own Light that had been shining through. Samuel drew a sudden, shuttering breath and for a flash of a moment, the angel could clearly see fear in the boy's features. But it was not fear of Castiel. 

It was fear of himself.

In that instant, the boy looked like the shy young man who'd shaken his hand scant days ago--heartrendingly young and painfully lost. Far from the Light.

_Oh God, Dean . . ._

The thought was projected and intrusive and entirely unintentional on the boy's part, but it struck Castiel hard, momentarily dragging the angel down in a heady and impossible to scrutinize mixture of needfeargrieflovefailuresorrowlustguiltragelosswantsorrysorrysosorryIcan't--

The angel shook his head slightly to shake off the tentative, one-way connection. 

_**Ours**_ , he asserted firmly in the boy's mind, with all the virtue and righteousness of one of the Host. 

_Mine_ , he thought more quietly to himself, the memory of Dean Winchester's battered and wounded soul held tightly in his grasp still bright and vivid.

The force of the thought seemed to flatten the child's panicked remorse, and his expression hardened again, shadows once more returning. He took a step back, but if the retreat was from Castiel or from his own momentary loss of control, the angel couldn't tell.

Samuel opened his mouth to voice another protest, but Castiel interrupted him. Pity colored his voice as he spoke, but there was also no room for argument. "You could ruin him if you pursue this path. Break him in ways you cannot begin to understand." His eyes hardened as he gazed at the boy, millennia of battles visible in their too-human surface. "You could ruin yourself."

Samuel stared, aggression and helplessness mixed in a poignantly human portrait. He and his brother looked painfully alike like that, bruised and bleeding souls both. Castiel could pity him for that resemblance . . . and maybe love him a little too.

". . . I could," the hunter whispered in a wounded tone, with all the conviction and obstinacy of a mortal. "Or I could save us both. I could save us all."

"You could," the angle conceded sadly. "But you are still only mortal, Sam. You won't."

A smile twitched over the boy's lips then--his brother's sneer, familiar and cruel. "Oh ye of little faith . . ."

The loud blow of a horn cut through the diner, piercing the air of confrontation between the two men and startling them both more than they'd care to admit. Around them, the diner--previously forgotten and unimportant--seemed to snap back into focus, patrons bustling about with complete ignorance of the battle that had been unfolding in their midst.

Castiel's eyes slid away from the boy to the hubbub of the diner. _Humans_ , he thought, _so willing to ignore the predators before them._ He looked back to the hunter. _So frightened of Grace that they're damning themselves one breath at a time._

Samuel turned as though to leave and then paused, looking back over his shoulder. "He doesn't believe in God yet, you know," he tossed back. "But he believes in you." It was an offering, a warning, and an apology all rolled into one. His lips quirked up into a smile that might have been mischievous if Castiel could not see the darkness slithering through his soul. "But he'll always love me more. More than God. And more than you."

He turned the rest of the way and walked out of the diner without awaiting the angel's response. 

Castiel stared after him, unable to identify the weight in his chest and the pressure squeezing at his human heart. The vessel knew the feeling instinctively, but it was novel to Castiel; angels were not overly familiar with affection like this. Or with heartbreak. The Lord didn't break hearts, after all.

He settled back in his seat and swallowed hard, watching through the window as Samuel climbed into his brother's car with an easy grace born of familiarity.

He could hear the Child's mocking voice in his memory and for some reason, it made the hurt in his chest intensify. _"So what? God is my copilot now?"_

The vehicle's headlights flared to life, momentarily blinding him, and then the car wheeled back, recoiling like a shot before peeling out onto the highway. The taillights danced like the eyes of a crossroads demon before they vanished into the darkness.

Emma materialized at his side, standing a bit away as though she was frightened of him. She had a right to be. Humans seemed to desperately desire salvation, but only when it was packaged palatably. They had very little love for true Glory. At least Dean had had the consistency to reject salvation wholesale when it had not come in the form he'd wanted. Not that it had done him any good in the end.

"Anything else, sir?" Her voice trembled a bit and her hands were were clutching her pad and pen desperately to steady themselves. 

Castiel turned his human eyes to her, but stayed clear of her soul this time. "Another cup of coffee, please. And a slice of pie."

The pen scribbled furiously across the pad. "What kind?"

"Whatever the gentleman at that table was having." He pointed towards Dean's empty seat and the two slices of untouched pie still sitting on the table. 

Emma dutifully scribbled something else down and bustled away, moving as quickly as she could without outright fleeing. 

Castiel watched her go wearily. 

There were those in the Host who held reservations about this plan--who wondered if humanity could be saved. If they were _worth_ saving. When Castiel had descended into the Pit to raise their champion, he had had no doubt. He had been sure and righteous in his purpose. Now, however, steeped in human flesh and privy to human vice and weaknesses, and face to face with Samuel Winchester . . . He didn't know any more. 

He was . . . uncertain . . . for the first time in memory.

All he knew was that this was unfolding according to His Will, but--seeing the fear in the Child's eyes as he voiced the Host's intent in the dark ( _"Stop him. Or we will."_ )--that was not the comfort it should have been. Not when it might ruin the Child and all these other mortals as surely as the Boy King's lingering darkness might. . . . Not even when they might all--mortals and demons and angels alike--deserve such a fate.

Castiel sighed heavily and stared into his empty mug. He knew the Light, the Way, and the Truth, but he also knew the bitter clutch in his chest at Samuel's parting words and Dean's angry, accusatory skepticism. And increasingly, he was coming to know the root of both sentiments. 

Even in Hell, Heaven had not felt quite this far away.

Emma reappeared suddenly, her sneakers now quiet on the sticky floor. A saucer was in one hand and a pot of coffee was in her other while Anne's grief shone in her eyes.

Two children. Their names had been Rachel and Arthur. They had liked to watch Blue's Clues and eat Spaghetti-O's. She wondered if they were still alive.

The angel turned away and looked back at the window as she set the plate before him.

_'...Their blood shall be upon them.'_

Castiel took a final sip of stone-cold coffee before handing the slightly cracked mug to the woman waiting at his side. Though long gone, he continued staring after the Impala's red taillights and his distant charge. Grace stirred within him, moved by something less divine.

_DeanOursMineChild._

Anne's hands shook as Emma topped him off.

  
**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**   



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